I'll Borrow Time
by justawanderingdragon
Summary: Haakon "Hiccup" Haddock (don't YOU think "Haakon" sounds like a cough or sneeze?) has tried to keep his two lives separate; one in Washington DC, and one in the small fishing town of Berk. So when matters in Berk start to affect DC, Hiccup stays out of it. But there are factors to consider: his father's political career, the summer job in Berk, and a certain mythological beast.
1. Prologue

**I'm gonna be hypocritical and write a modern AU. But, like, with dragons (I **_**strongly **_**believe that it's not HTTYD without dragons). And like any crappy modern AU, it's strongly influenced by my real life…So if some of these situations ring a bell, I'm sorry, but you've probably met me.**

**And, um, while I normally encourage constructive criticism, I will still appreciate it, but I've had this fic planned for a long, **_**long**_** time and won't likely make ANY changes to what I have in store. Unlike Twisted or Breaking the Ice, I'm writing this not as a "what-if" but simply for fun. For my own pleasure.**

**Also, guess where the title comes from! I've hidden references throughout the story.**

There once was a boy that could blend in with the forest.

It was not as if he _tried_ to blend in. No one wants to blend in, not really. But when one wears the same green and brown, brown and green in away that becomes monotonous, it is hard to stand out against shrubbery. Green and brown simply looked good on him; fuzzy brown hair and soft green eyes.

Maybe it was meant to be. Green and brown, with a bony crown. Brown and green, just another tree.

But never mind that. He had a_ bike_. A black, fast bike. It had once been glossy and very showy with all the nice gears and gadgets that a twiggy boy should not be using, but time proved a difficult foe. But no matter; the wheels still spun on their spokes, the handlebars swiveled with ease, and the breaks obeyed the boy's commands. A little rust, a few scratches, but there was no need to_ do_ anything if it still worked perfectly well.

And when a little green-and-brown stick of a boy is on a lively bike as dark as a dragon's wing, he_ soars_ past the trees. He _flies._

Oh, if only one could pen the experience!

Unless you are truly an unfortunate being, we all know of a little flame dancing inside us. Some call it hope or ambition or love. Others insist it is inspiration or wonder or joy. The truth is that we do not know the name of this tiny flame and know nothing about it other than that it dances to the pulse of our hearts.

Our green-and-boy's flame was _blazing._ It was a great fire, no more a flame, fanned by the winds that ruffled his hair and blew past him.

But reality does as reality will do and drag us back down to the earth, or in this story's case, the forest path.

He fell and he fell _hard_ around a particularly tight turn. Of course he had had incidents and accidents galore (side affect of being a teenage boy), but physical pain never gets easier the second time. Mangling your leg when you are fifteen hurts just as badly as it did when you were fourteen. Your skin does not toughen, your blood does not retract from the wound; it is warm and it is sticky and it is dribbling out of your left leg.

Needless to say, he limped all the way back to his house, bike trailing along beside him as his feet clomped along the unforgiving path. His leg was still stinging, and it was more of a nuisance than a pain, honestly.

If one would see this scene, at first glance it looked like a black bike being dragged sorrowfully along a path, looking more like a hearse than a plaything. On second glance you might notice the pathetic boy pushing it. What a pitiful looking child. He does not stand out nearly as much as the bike does. Then again, without the boy, the bike cannot be ridden. It is useless. Scrap metal.

But it is a hard ride from there to the other side with the limping in all. It would take quite a longer time than riding a bike. Our green-and-brown boy will just have to borrow time.


	2. Hiccup Assumes the Summer will be Boring

**Note 1: This story will be told in two perspectives, first person and third person. Hiccup is the only one ever telling it in first person**

**Note 2: None of the places in this story are real (aside from DC, obviously).**

**Note 3: I try to avoid using OCs when possible in my fics. So if I need a role to fill, I usually steal a character from another movie (Jack Frost, Merida, etc). OCs are used as little as possible, like for baristas and such.**

**Note 4: Hiccup says some mean things. Nothing he says in dialogue or his POV reflect my opinions. I'm just trying to keep him IC.**

There are a lot of things I would like to tell you (but I can't).

First off, I would like to tell you that my name is not "Haakon". I guess it's not as bad as names come (would you believe me if I told you I knew a guy named GOBBER?), but it's still pretty awful. My father said it's an old, old family name of Norse origin. Turns out there were two Haakon Haddocks before me (no one knows who they were or what they did, they just existed). Considering these are the Vikings we're talking about, I guess I should be grateful my birth certificate doesn't say Dogsbreath or Wartihog or some overly-descriptive barbaric name. But, yeah, my name is Haakon.

At least it's better than my middle name: Huck. From what I've gathered, my mother was this huge literary nerd and had a particular interest in _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_. I'm sure when she suggested the name "Huckleberry", the nurses at the maternity ward gagged, so now it's just Huck. Yes, I know it rhymes with a certain swear word.

Go ahead and laugh. Just wait until you see my nickname.

I got babysit a lot when I was younger (side effect of being raised by a single, busy parent) and there was this one girl who could never pronounce my name correctly. She always said Hack-un or something stupider.

"HAKE-ON," my father said. "Haakon." I was hardly a toddler when this occurred, but I can just imagine his face growing redder and redder with the embarrassment and regret of naming his son something unpronounceable.

Then the babysitter would say, "bless you", offer him a tissue, or ask if he needed a glass of water. I wouldn't could blame her. Any non-Scandinavian would've thought my name were a cough or hiccup.

Hiccup. _That_ was my nickname and _that_ stuck (it was English, after all).

I _also_ would like to tell you that I grew up in a small town or big city. Man, can you imagine how _cool_ that'd be? I don't consider myself a romantic, but this story would be 100x more awesome if I set it against the backdrop of an elegant skyline or a homey village. But then it wouldn't be_ my_ story. _My_ story involves both a small town and a big city, but neither of them are _mine. _I live in this small city/big town called Keens that's really known for nothing but housing a bunch of preppy white kids. And considering I live here, it's not really that far from the truth.

To the WEST is Washington DC, a big and important city where my father works as a politician. I'm familiar with it enough to know the Mall from the Smithsonian, which is really all I care about.

To the EAST is Berk. You've never heard of it. No, I am telling you now that you've _never_ heard of it. But_ I_ know exactly where it is; eastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay, hours away from the doorstep of my house. I was born there fifteen years ago but not raised.

I guess you could say I dread going there every summer. It's not that I don't like the place, but it's the PEOPLE that bug me. The kids there, my peers, _hate_ me. They don't say it to my face but it's a little more than obvious.

It makes sense, though. I can see why I'm unwanted. How would YOU feel, living in a fairly poor town with your friends and family and all of a sudden this rich city kid with a big-shot father sets up house for the summer like your home's some sort of vacation spot? See, this is why I am not looking forward to it. (It would be better if we stayed there in Berk forever, in a little house by the Bay. I'd get a lot less crap, that's for sure. It's not like I have anything appealing in Keens. I might even enroll in "regular" school and start living my own life…)

To be fair, it's not like I can help it. My dad needs _somewhere _to put me. I mean, he things it's better to have me help out at a fishing and boating shop than to waste my days alone playing Minecraft.

My dad's a good guy; he's just not very good at being a dad. I mean, I tell he desperately tries to be home as much as possible during the school year (and thus is very busy during the summer). He's on the right path; leaving your kid unsupervised for long amounts of time is a no-no in the parenting world. He's a politician, which is synonymous with "loads of work".

(Did I mention that I'm homeschooled? It's just one more reason why visiting Berk makes me miserable. I hardly know anyone in my own area; those Berkian bullies are some of the closest things I've got to physical "friends".)

So that's what I was doing that day. I was saying goodbye to my only friend in Keens, because the next day I would have to endure the two-hour car ride from the DC metropolitan area to the eastern shore. There _are_ perks to having a frequently absent guardian, including that you have the freedom to leave the house whenever you want.

I was meeting this girl, a crazy chick called Camicazi (yes, as in the Japanese suicide bombers), for lunch at a French bakery. My social life may be stuck with a bunch of assholes on Berk, but it's not _totally_ in the pits.

Camicazi was a product of Keens, through and through. She was rich and white, like me. But unlike me, she had a life going to an elite and expensive private school (same-sex, mind you) with friends and parties and crap. I had her and, um, possibly a few people online that I could consider friends, but we mainly talked about video games and such. In fact, the only way I got to _meet_ her was through our parents, who were rivals at a political debate. We hit off over how stupid the whole thing was. It drove our parents nuts.

I'm pretty sure she has a crush on me. Given our circumstances, you'd think we'd make the perfect star-crossed lovers. But I wasn't really feeling it, and besides, she's two years younger than me (and kind of liked another girl). Still, I let her consider our little luncheon a date. Just to amuse her.

I recognized the person behind the counter at the place—Marta was her name—but the girl gave no sign that she knew us. Camicazi went there frequently enough but I guess not too much to be considered "regulars".

She got a fruit tart; flakey bleached pastry stickered with really, really brightly-colored fruit and drizzled with a disgustingly sugary syrup. I asked her if she thought it looked sickening.

"I don't know!" she grinned. Camicazi got something new every time.

I, however, ordered my typical ham-and-cheese croissant. You couldn't pay me to touch those diabetes-inducing monstrosities. It was like fructose on steroids.

There was no room in the bakery for seating (obviously, they were too busy showing off their pastries on pedestals). We sat outside, on the curb. Sure there was fancy wired seating, but they were uncomfortable and wet. It seemed that concrete soaked up moisture more easily than metal.

The sky was cloudy and the earth was even cloudier. There was no rain, but the fog encompassed everything in a dark, wet hug. I was almost hoping that my last day in Keens would be sunny and bright, but the weather mirrored that of the overall climate in Berk; dreary.

Camicazi was in elegant spirits, though. She went on and on about how this rain was good for the farmers and such, not that it was raining at all and not that she knew a damn thing about farming.

Camicazi's a real riot to watch. Really, it doesn't matter if you can hold a conversation or not (I, myself, am leaning towards the "socially inept" side of the scale) because she can talk on and on and still convince you that you're a valuable part of the interaction. If you want to talk, she'll let you and if you don't want to talk, she'll fill all the awkward silences by making you laugh. Even if she's not babbling, she's hilarious. Along with her quirky body-language, Camicazi has this habit of chewing with her mouth open. It's obscene and nasty and she _knows_ it and she milks your every reaction.

It was such a shame that she couldn't come to Berk with me. I'm going to miss her an awful lot. In this modern day and age we have phones where we can call our friends as we please, but it's not the same. To fully appreciate what I call the "Camicazi experience", you need the full package, flailing limbs and all. Ah, well, at least there's always Skype.

xXx

We packed everything I would need for three months in a small town into my dad's car. I even insisted we bring my bicycle; we had driven for about a block or two before I remembered it was still sitting in the garage. That bicycle is _important._

I admit, as I stared out the window, that I didn't feel too sad about leaving Keens. I'd miss my house and my desk and the park and Camicazi, but I wasn't feeling _too_ bad about it. Every year I tell myself that I'd get homesick as the weeks would start to roll on in Berk and every year as Keens fades into a dot in the distance I feel nothing. My dad says that not getting homesick is a symptom of being "well-traveled".

Today I would _certainly_ be traveling quite a long way. And I like traveling, honestly. I like looking at new stuff and taking pictures of over-milked destinations and just generally being a tourist. But I _hate_ the long car rides and plane rides. I just don't have the patience.

When I was younger, I used to do this thing with my dad called "the road-kill game" which is exactly like you'd think it to be; whoever saw whoever saw the road-kill first got a point. Usually I'd win, with him concentrating on the road and all. Dead things got little!Hiccup going. I loved it, and I loved it even more when Dad would stop buy a 7-11 and buy me a Slurpee for winning.

There were many other things to see other than dead animals decomposing on the side of the road. Dad used to make up funny names for the landmarks. All of a sudden, Sandy Point Beach became butt-crack beach and Dan's Bait 'n Fish became Smelly Worm Store. Looking back, I realize that little!Hiccup had pretty low standards of humor. He thought it was hilarious.

Nowadays I just mostly listen to my iPod, though.

xXx

I must have fallen asleep eventually, because when I asked Dad if we had crossed the Bay Bridge yet, he grunted that we already had. The bridge is the halfway point. We were already on the eastern shore.

And then I probably snoozed off again while wearing my headphones, because I nearly screamed when a particularly loud song jolted me awake.

My father chuckled. "Relax, Hiccup, we're almost there."

Yeah, I could see that we were almost there. The eastern shore looks infinitely different than the western one. There are little details like how seagulls replace crows and how the horizon is peppered with sailboat masts and not tall pine trees. And everything tastes _salty._ You _breathe_ and your tongue laps it up.

It's not the wealthiest of communities, either. That's what makes the Haddocks stick out so much. The houses are sun-bleached and covered in mold from the perpetually damp air, the people were drab clothing as if they were a part of a scenery instead of a living being residing in it.

Dad loves it, though. "Ah, Berk," he'd say and smile through that huge red beard of his. "It's good to be home!" That kind of made me feel a bit sad. If Berk was _his_ home, then where did _I _call myself a native? _Keens?_ I like Berk an awful lot and I honestly wish I could call it my home, but I can't. It's degrading when your own father subtly admits that you don't fit it. Anywhere. It feels completely sad.

I could tell we were nearing our destination when the highway turned to a road, and the road turned to gravel. The path looked pretty worn-down. I can't believe it, though. In all the many times I've been down here I've never seen another soul use this road.

xXx

Gobber was an old-fashioned man. That's not bad, really, but it _is_ noticeable when the house you're spending the summer in has no air conditioning or wi-fi. Summers in DC awful, but that doesn't make Berk any better. It's humid and sticky, and the bog-like atmosphere gives birth to a zillion mosquitos. It's quite annoying when they stick to your arms and the ceiling of your bedroom.

My bedroom was in the attic, which made it colder when it was cold and warmer when it was warm. But by the time I was fifteen, I knew how cool I could make the shower and where all the wool comforters were. I was fairly comfortable, at least as much as I could be.

(What _really_ bugged me was that Gobber's Internet connection was not wireless. If I wanted a place to surf the web I had to go to an Internet café or something.)

That night I slept on the sofa, because my dad was staying over the first night. It was cooler than the attic, but it smelled. Plus, Gobber had a lot of duck carvings and I swear those things are going to come alive someday and kill me with their laser eyes. Those things give me the shivers.

Besides the obvious lack of necessities (for a modern teenager), Gobber's house is also in pretty bad shape. The roof is gooed with mildew and I keep telling him that I'm going to inhale something toxic and start growing algae in my lungs, but the crazy man never listens, mostly because that would mean borrowing money from my father. But if there's one thing you should know about Gobber—or anyone from Berk, in general—it's that he is proud as hell. He won't do it, even at the cost of his godson's health.

Oddly enough, I admire him very much.

Gobber cooked dinner and breakfast—he's very good at it. My father is fairly mediocre in the kitchen and it's his favorite thing to do. I, on the other hand, will _never_ follow a recipe. Since Dad doesn't like cooking I volunteer for it—but I can't help but divert from the instructions and end up creating something…else. I'm not allowed to cook for, well, _anyone_ anymore after I caught a potentially deadly illness from my own concoction. That's one thing both Gobber and my father could agree on.

I can't describe the relationship between my father and my godfather as anything other than life-long friends of the deepest kind of relationship. They've known each other for years—since they were in the Scottish military, since they moved to the United States, since my father decided to get into politics because "those damn Americans can't do anything right." (Gee, thanks Dad, it's not like you and I are both legal American citizens along with the fact I was born here and know virtually nothing about Scotland.) They do everything together, despite that my father's this big, stoic guy and Gobber's some goofy sailing enthusiast. It's great, and I can only hope that someday I have a friendship that meaningful (at least, I sincerely hope it's _platonic)._

I knew exactly what I would do after breakfast—clean, bike, and work at Gobber's boating shop. Maybe even stop by a café with wi-fi if I have time. I'm not a bragger, but I'm pretty good with a sailboat. I mean, I've never actually _sailed_ one before, but I know all the parts and what they do (I get paid to do this) and I'm fairly good at the technical stuff, too. Gobber's taught me everything.

The one thing that really would brighten my summer (and I've told Dad and Gobber this at least a hundred times) was if I could actually sail. I'm not sure if you're from Maryland's eastern shore, but everything here is about the Bay. _Everything._ You can't walk two feet without hearing about oysters or crabs or water pollution or having Old Bay stuffed in your face. Sailing…it's the "cool" thing to do. And I can't do it. It's pretty sad.

To be honest, I wasn't too excited to be here. I never was. Why would this summer be any different?


	3. Welcome to Berk

Gobber's Fishing and Boating shop was argued by the denizens of Berk to be of the finest quality on the eastern shore. There bigger names, so-called better brands, but a warehouse of plastics produced in China was no match to the shack of a middle-aged war veteran.

The front of the store showcased all the latest in maritime hobbies, and even stocked vintage equipment; brightly painted fishing rods stood proudly, greeting anyone who knocked on the door. There were tack boxes with their appendages stretched out til they looked like angels. And behind a wooden door, as everyone knew but never saw unless they requested it specifically, sat

"Astrid…" the Scot said, squinting at the girl with careful eyes. "Are ye okay? Ye're a bit more irritable…Well, more than what's expected."

"I'm fine!" she snarled, voice biting and defensively raking back, painfully, like talon. Astrid relocated some strands of sweaty, blonde hair behind her ears and went on, "Gobber, I just need to know what you'd take for these rods." She swung the metal poles in between the two Berkians.

"Are ye sure ye want me to take these?" Gobber questioned. "Those look a lot like yer father's prized fishing rods. Doesn't he need those for his business?"

"No, not any more."

Gobber took the poles out of her hands, for she looked like she was about to throw them at him if he did not. "Astrid, I'm serious. I sold 'em to yer father myself!"

"He just doesn't need them any more, okay?"

"Okay, okay…"

The fishing rods were placed neatly next to the bait and the bobbers. They were a nice piece of work; Astrid's father had owned them for many years, as Gobber knew, but the poles looked freshly polished.

"It's the fish!" Astrid shouted, banging her fist on the wooden table. Tools, spare string, and random metal whatsits leaped in the air with her temper, just as startled as Gobber. "They're gone! Dad hasn't been able to catch a single bass in months! The rockfish have all been reduced to rubble! And don't get me started on the trout. We don't know why."

Her father made his living through the Bay, Gobber knew, and Mrs. Hofferson had no employment, too caught up in all of Astrid's siblings. He did not ask what Mr. Hofferson was going to do next, because he already knew; the Hoffersons' sole source of income would remain desolate for quite a while. Astrid's inquiry, "Do you know where I could get a job?" said it all. "I've been babysitting for a while—Fishlegs's siblings and the Thorstons—"

"Tan and Ran have younger siblings?"

"No, they don't." She gave a dejected look. "I can't do my dad's job for him, I can't do my own, I don't know what to do and I just want to be useful!" Astrid sighed, obviously exasperated, before thanking Gobber for his time. She took her money and walked out the door.

"Astrid, wait," Gobber said. "I'm holding sailing lessons—free of charge. I can teach ye the ins and outs of a boat, how to catch the best wind, and the difference between jibing and tacking."

Blue eyes peered from behind the doorframe. "What time?"

"Next Saturday morning—10 o'clock?"

Astrid shrugged. "Sure, okay." And she walked away.

**xXx**

Like I said, Gobber's house doesn't have wifi. It's kind of sad. Anyways, the place I get my daily dose of Internet is not a café, if that's what you were thinking of, but a seafood bar. It's one of those ratty places that when you're slurping down raw oysters on a suspiciously sticky table, a worker suddenly comes out and slaps a cockroach on the wall behind you and you choke on the still-squirming shellfish squiggling down your throat. But of course I don't say that aloud; it's the Ingerman's place, and their son Christopher "Fishlegs" Ingerman. I don't know why we call him Fishlegs. I was apparently back in Keens when this story occurred.

Fun fact: I used to be good friends with Fishlegs. Back in the day, we used to go troll hunting together. Gobber told us stories of trolls in the marshes and less than a few minutes later, I would force Fishlegs to come searching with me through the wet, sticky bogs.

Of course, I've hardly spoken a word to him in the past few years. I've found that as kids grow up, they tend to drift away from each other (sad, but true). Now instead of sitting in a corner booth with me, he's at the bar table with the other local teens. They're all jackasses, if I do say so myself. What's worse is that they've managed to drag poor, innocent Astrid into their gang.

Astrid Hofferson could rival the goddess Freya in beauty. I mean, she's really, _really_ fine on the eyes. She has this thick, blonde hair that used to be platinum when she was a toddler. You can see the natural golden highlights underneath, as she always keeps it in a braid or ponytail. And Astrid's bangs are—and I don't use this word much—cute. They're really long and hang across her face. I think she's annoyed with them, as she's constantly pushing them back, but never cuts them or ties them.

And her eyes are the cold blue of thick glaciers. Astrid's a pretty athletic girl; she's captain of the volleyball team at her high school, does swimming in the summer, not to mention she often goes sailing. Needless to say, she's in peak physique. What a babe.

Too bad she hangs out with losers.

For some odd reason, she's never quite liked me. I know she _notices_ me—when we were five she pushed me into the mud; she gave me a black eye when we were eight; at age ten I had lost horrifically to her in beach volleyball; and now she hardly looks at me, and if she does, it's some variant of the same icy glare. You know, I think she just shows her emotions through physical aggression. I think that's a good thing—I'm pretty sure she's warming up to me.

I look out the same window at the same booth every time I come here. The Ingermans' bar is on the middle of a dock so cranky old fishermen can come in for a beer once they've caught zero fish. The sea is always so dull and gray—sometimes I think that there's just a perpetual fog on my window. But you go outside and look at the Bay; and it still looks like an artist's palette—a colorless mess. On a good day the sky is clear and makes the small waves miles away appear like floating diamonds. But most of the time it's choppy, gray mud.

A few local Berkian teens were gaffing at something (probably something stupid) just within earshot. This sort of gang doesn't have a set leader, but something tells me that Scot Jorgenson thinks himself king. Honestly though, Scot Jorgenson could not lead a primitive tribe of barbarians if he inherited the throne.

Along with Scot the Lout, Astrid, and Fishlegs, there were two fraternal brutes named Randi and Tanner Thorston. But "Randi and Tanner" is five syllables too long, so everyone just calls them Ran and Tan.

I could hear them talking—I always hear them talking during the beginning of the summer, and it's always about me. I know this because I can pick up the words "loser" and "wimp" and "spoiled" from a mile away. It's always me. They know I can hear them—Tan once asked, "Why are you staring blankly at the coffee?" several times before Astrid slapped him. And then she glared at me. I swear to God I'm not eavesdropping—they talk to loud, and besides, I'm always there first.

Over the hum of the busy kitchen I heard them chuckling to themselves, making small talk, something I'm not a huge fan of. Scot was bullying good ol' Fishlegs into swiping them some beer from his parents' cellar. I'm not sure if he ever did nor did not, because Fishlegs ended up making very anxious noises and running off to God-knows-where.

For the first time, Astrid was the one to initiate conversation. It's odd because she's the quiet one, if you can believe that—it seems she's always fuming over something and is just too angry to talk to. Unless, of course, it's about—

"Guess what _I'm_ doing?" she bragged. "Gobber offered to train _me_ in fishing and sailing—"

"But, babe," Scot interrupted. "You're already, like, _pro_ at that shit!"

"I'm not_ nearly_ as good as I could be," she responded. "There's always room for improvement." And with that, the blonde quirked her eyebrow and took a sip of her most definitely age-appropriate drink.

"Well—" Scot stuttered. "It's _obvious_ to see why _you _scored extra training." His attempts to impress Astrid were rather pathetic. It made me sicker than the time I ate my first raw oyster.

Astrid rolled her eyes at her tactless admirer. _"Anyways,_ Gobber thinks it would be a good idea to train the rest of you, too."

"Wait, wait, wait," Tan said, cutting off Astrid's announcement. _"He_ wants _us_ to be trained to do _actual jobs?_ When we could be setting fire to Old Woman Josie's barn? The guy's losing it!" 

"Well…" drawled Tan's sister. "Mom _did_ say we had to get a job soon…"

"Or else we would have to give up our pet snakes…" The twins shuddered.

"Great!" Scot said. "It's official then! We become professional sailors! From what I hear, manning a boat is a two person job…" He smiled slyly at Astrid who pushed him off his bar stool.

"Woah, when I said all of us, I mean _all of us."_ Astrid's tone was serious and deadly, as if she had been talking about a plague…

"Who else is there?"

She winced. "Hiccup."

There was an outcry. At the mention at my name the teens weren't so much furious as they were terribly annoyed. From what I heard from the impending ruckus, I was "useless" and "whiny" and a "piece of moldy wood who doesn't know how to mind his own business". Lovely compliments right there. I don't know why I don't hang out with those kids more often.

"You idiots!" Ran shrieked, smacking the other three upside the head. "He's right there!" She pointed one long, skinny finger in the direction of the corner booth where I was pretending to be immersed in my free wi-fi. "God! You're so embarrassing!" Ran huffed a bit before ordering her brother to leave the bar. And you could not pay Astrid her weight in gold to be alone with Scot, so she hightailed out as well. It only took a few minutes—and a glare from Scot—for the bar to be empty.

By that time I had forgotten what I came into the bar for—wi-fi apparently, but it's use was lost. Whatever had been on my laptop's screen might as well have been a bluescreen, for I stared blankly at it with confusion. I did not _want_ to be initiated into Berk's cult of fishermen and boaters, much less with kids who would rather gut _my _stomach than a fish's. They would; it's a known fact that teenagers are cruel.

So I closed my laptop and headed back to Gobber's. I had not eaten yet—it was my lunch-break—but I much rather submit to work on an empty stomach than order something from the Ingermans'. Besides, the constant smell of the pier below was starting to rouse my breakfast instead.

**xXx**

As I said, my room is stifling hot. There's no way I could go there after work. My free time was usually spent at the Ingermans's bar, but seeing how as I was there during lunch, that was not an option. I'm glad I brought my bike. When you're riding fast enough, not even passerby's waves register. No one says "hello" or asks you how your ride is going. And I like it that way. The world is much more enjoyable from a distance, if you ask me. You don't have to be a part of it, no one has to talk to you; you just have to go fast enough and you can watch lives unfold before you without feeling the necessity to have one of your own.

As I fetched my bike from Gobber's shed, I could hear him talking on the phone with my Dad. I wondered how important such news was that Gobber felt the need to call him even though anyone who knew him knew that Stuart Haddock was the busiest during the summer months.

From what I could tell by snippets of their conversation, the two men were having an argument and my dad was losing.

"The kid can't be a loner forever!" Gobber said.

I couldn't hear all the way back in DC, but I imagined my father sighing loudly. As much as I begged to be put into public school, as much as I cajoled him to move to Berk, he refused under the argument that I would be eaten alive. "You're not ready for the real world, Haakon," he would say. I came up with dozens of plausible debates—but for him it was always the same end-all phrase.

Gobber didn't see me when he hung up the phone. "Hiccup!" he called. "Hiccup where are ye? I just got off th' phone with yer father—he said you can join Berk's junior sailors! Isn't that great? Hiccup?"

But the wheels of my bike where already turning. I was pedaling far away—well, at least as far as I could get before it was dinnertime (Gobber, I must admit, is a fantastic cook).

I thought a lot about what had unfolded during the past day…What the teens had said during lunch…What Gobber said about his decision…And most importantly, how my father probably reacted.

It was odd, though, that although these were pressing on my mind, I soon forgot about them as I rode down the gravel roads. Berk is a beautiful place, when you stop to look around. It's beautiful in a twisted way, if you like hidden beauty; if you like lighthouses that shine through fog; if you like flat oceans holding marine worlds underneath; if you like salt and damp air. But it's so _real_—as if when you are in the town of Berk, no other towns or cities exist, as if Berk has looked exactly the same since the gods supposedly created the earth, as if it were a place from a fairy tale transported into the modern world so that you would have the honor of walking on it.

The marshland is gorgeous. There are hills that are barely hills, but lumps of rock with short, dry and yellow grass. They look like a dragon's spiky spine curling as he sleeps. I swear the fog is his breath and the thunder is his snoring. If you step on land within a hundred feet of the shore, it's probably not 100% solid. And it's endearing, in a way—at least, this little town has managed to enamor me.

And someday I'll live here. Someday I'll go to the local school. I'll invent something—something brilliant. And people will like me. I'll be a normal kid, except, obviously, I'm a genius. You might think, "Hiccup, if everyone hates you, then why do you want to move here?" Well I'll tell you this: I've been sheltered my whole life. Homeschooled. No friends. Berk is where I can walk from the delusion that is Keens to the real world. And the real world…Man, no matter how awful, how horrific, how bitter, once you see it for the first time, you never want to go back. You'll never want to give up your wings.

So that's what I thought of as I rode my bike.


	4. Traversing the Bay in a Blue Trampoline

I'm constantly waiting for something awful to happen.

It's going to happen someday—I know it. By all logic, if you have an awful life, something good will happen, and if you have a good life, something awful will happen. Call it karma, equality, nature, whatever, but I'm certain of it.

It's not that I'm superstitious—I'm not—but I can't help but live in dread that if something horrific were too happen, it would mess me up more than anyone else. My dad could die. I could lose a limb. Any alarming event would be devastating, considering what I've been though; _nothing_. I've been through nothing.

I think about that a lot. That something's going to come along and change my life, a situation, a person, or an occurrence. And I'm so worried it may be spun by the devil (if he even exists).

And it so happens that I thought of this while standing on the edge of the moldy pier next to Gobber's shop. Not to say this event was abominable, because in the grand scheme of things this situation was considerably petty, but I still felt pretty nauseous. I had even attempted to play sick in bed, but Gobber knows me well enough to see through my act.

I nearly _did_ feel like vomiting, for a boy raised in DC may be used to the sun's heat smoldering the smog of the city, but not fish and seaweed. The pier was generations old, at least old enough for my father and mother to carve their initials on it when they had just emigrated from the Orkney Islands to Berk, years before I was born. It reminded them of their homeland, my father had said. The sea and the wind and all that stuff.

First thing was first, before we could touch the bay, we had to put together our boats. Catamarans are a little like trampolines, except if you bounce on them the boat will tip over and while people like Scot may think it's fun, I don't. There were three catamarans in all; two teams of three and Gobber. He must have thought that a team consisting of Fishlegs Ingerman and me would have been more pathetic a fish in the desert, because he soon put a slightly unwilling Astrid on ours.

Astrid Hofferson didn't talk to us. She has this way of communicating purely through body language, a huff here and a glare there. The first thing she said to me was through a pained grunt, "Hiccup! Give me the mast key!"

Skinny, but strong, Astrid was holding up the mast all on her own. The mast key wasn't so much of a key as it was a metal rod. You see, the metal rod goes in through a hole that attaches the end of the mast around a spherical knob, which itself is attached to the front of the sailboat. There are two horrible things that can happen to your mast key; it gets bent (in assisting Gobber in his shop, I've had to unbend quite a few customers') or lost. Without a mast key you might as well have no mast.

While Fishlegs was scrambling to secure the mast into place using various wires and locks, I tried to hand the mast key to Astrid.

"Put it in," she hissed through clenched teeth.

"Oh!" I had ignored the fact that Astrid could probably not hold the mast and bend down to secure it at the same time.

The key was linear and beautiful and it should have fit snugly into the aperture it was destined for. But instead I dropped it into the murky water below. In my defense, I'm not used to standing on a goddamn wobbly trampoline in the goddamn Chesapeake Bay!

"Hiccup, are you done yet?"

"Um…" I didn't know what to say.

"You didn't drop it, did you?" Astrid asked. And then a few seconds later she said, "You idiot. Go get it."

I glanced down at the brackish water. Although we were still near the pier and there was probably concrete just two feet below the surface, it was an oily green color and I could not see the bottom, not to mention the rotting fish head bobbing within an arms distance of the boat.

But Astrid was beginning to look murderous—Scot and the twins had already accomplished what we had just begun. So I said "No problem," and spent about five minutes stepping around in smelly water to find our mast key.

I gave a faux smile. "Here it is!" And I slipped it into the mast.

Astrid gave out a gasp of breath as she removed herself from the pole. I expected her to say "good job" or something of the likes, but she only turned her back on me to climb up the pier. Seconds passed before thick canvas sails were thrown down to Fishlegs and me. We hoisted them, rapidly, before Astrid returned with the rudder. There was no time to waste.

"Hey—hey, where are you going?" I inquired as she returned to the dock once more. With mast, sails, and a rudder, it seemed that we had all we needed to catch up to Scot and the twins, who were already pulling out of the inlet.

"To get oars."

"Oh."

**xXx**

The path that the amateur sailors took was one weaving through marshes. Surrounding them were high, yellow reeds that moved along with their boat whenever the wind blew. If one squinted in the morning when the sun was rising in the east, a boater could see the western shore, a line of grey against the darker grey of the Bay. Everything was grey.

A young girl clenched a blue rope connected to a beaten jib—a jib is a small sail in the front of the boat. It gets moved from left to right around the mast. Often, it determines how fast one sails. A stranger might see the girl's pursed lips, narrow eyes, and hands that looked like they had been in fists for quite a while too long and think she was angry.

An angry teenager is often pictured in black, preferably leather, with an angry scowl and a dark fringe. Astrid Hofferson may have had the fringe (but it was a sunny blonde, and only because she had not acquired time to get her hair cut or even cut it herself), but she could not be a farther image than the stereotypical angry teenager.

First off, she dressed as ordinarily as a grass lawn is ordinary for a house. Jersey tees and jackets consisted of a good portion of her wardrobe. Cut-off jean shorts and cheap flip-flops in the summer, a woolen skirt over leggings and combat boots in the winter. Astrid's hair was thick and attractive and her cheeks were a healthy and rose-colored with a cute splatter of brown freckles just to finish it off.

She was social and active. Astrid Hofferson was not a particularly modest girl, but she never claimed to be the most popular teenager in Berk; even though every single person knew it was true. She was extroverted, always stating her opinion on topics such as the new calculus teacher, the neighboring town's volleyball team, and that annoying Haddock kid who hung around in the summer.

She was also an overachiever. Half the recent trophies and awards in the school gallery were attributed to her. Honor roll student. Captain of the soccer team. Most community service hours. Most likely to succeed. Science fair 1st prize. On the yearbook committee. On the debate team. School president. Astrid had a monopoly on it all.

And no one seemed to mind it. The citizens of Berk approved of this local girl who had grown up into the model Berkian; successful, stubborn, smart, and _tough as nails_. It was rumored that a small minority of people only agreed on the fact that Astrid was perfect because she scared the hell out of them.

Yes. Maybe aside from the famed Stuart "Stoic" Haddock, Astrid Hofferson was the hometown hero. "What a lovely girl," the people of Berk would say. "She's got it all; beauty, brains, talent. If only she would stop scowling! If only her shoulders would relax! If only she tied those pesky bangs back so we could see her beautiful, beautiful sky-blue eyes."

But. But she was angry. But she glared at the people who loved her. But though she reveled in the attention, she wanted to be more than Berk's beauty queen. She wanted to _do_ something; she was talented, she knew that, praise had been lavished on her in great platters since she had been a pigtailed kindergartener. What good is talent if you don't _do_ anything with it?

There was no pressure to succeed. Astrid had already done it. It was _easy._ She could be anything she wanted to be. Go to any college, any university in the world. She could be a doctor, a lawyer, an actress, a government worker. She would succeed, she would _excel._

"But you can't do it with that attitude!" her mother frequently reminded her.

But Astrid's brow remained furrowed and her fists remained clenched. Constantly on edge she remained.

"Astrid," her father said kindly. "Would you like some help with your calculus?"

"Don't help me!" she said. "I don't need it!"

"Astrid," her mother said in the hallway of their small house. "You have a volleyball game tonight. Would you like me to do your laundry?"

"I'll do it on my own," she said, glaring at the mess of t-shirts and panties and bras and jeans in her hamper. And Astrid would do her own laundry (all by herself) and fold them on her bed, neatly (all by herself), and put them in the dresser, color-coded (all by herself).

"Astrid," the soccer coach said as her star player sat panting on the benches. "You've played hard through the whole game. You should sit out this quarter."

"No," she said through gritted teach. "I'm can do it."

"A-a-astrid ," Hiccup the Useless asked nervously (what a pathetic wimp). "Do you need help with the jib?"

"No!" she snapped at him. "I've got it under control."

What a loser. He did not _really_ want to help her. He just wanted an excuse to talk to her and maybe get on her good side. Despicable.

It was common knowledge, Astrid assumed, that she could do anything on her own. She had the jib under control (and that useless bastard _knew it),_ the coarse blue rope rubbing red marks burn marks into the pale flesh of her palms as she clenched it tightly in her fists.

**xXx**

"_Huh,"_ I thought. _"This isn't so bad."_

None of us on the catamaran were talking; something I was grateful of, even though I knew the reason was because none of them _wanted_ to talk to me. Hey, if you can't say anything nice, might as well say nothing at all!

Scot and the twins were far ahead of us, cruising at the highest speed they could manage on this lackluster morning. Me and Fishlegs? Well, we kind of let Astrid do all the work. I'm sure she called us sissies and useless losers in her head, but at the same time she manned each rig and sail until we were moving at a respectable velocity. To be honest, all three of us knew that if Fishlegs or I tried to mess with the boat, we'd have an angry Astrid and probably capsize or something.

But the tension had eased over the last half hour. Astrid was flipping back and forth between the jib, the main sail, and the rudder. We knew best to stay out of her way. I'm no scaredy-cat, but I admit I didn't dare drag my feet in the water, no matter how refreshing it looked.

Instead, I turned my face to the breeze. Looking at only the blue sky above and the rushing water below, it almost reminded me of riding my bike. But it was more than that. I wasn't pedaling and the water was too fluid, to easy to traverse to be mistaken for earth. In a way, it felt like flying. I was a kite. A bird. A dragon.

My shoulders relaxed; practically since I'd arrived at Berk I'd been on edge. I felt calm. Peaceful. There was no sound other than the waves and the gulls and my heartbeat. I felt nothing but ocean spray and wind tangling my hair.

I honestly never knew I was capable of feeling this free.

"Look at the water," Astrid mumbled, interrupting my bliss. "Not a single fish."

Neither Fishlegs nor I answered her, half because we didn't want to, and half because she was probably talking to herself anyways. But we still looked at the water. As far as I could tell, fish didn't live in the Bay unless they were on your rod. You just don't _look_ into deep, murky green-tinged water and see schools of cod and bass unless it's a video on Animal Planet. Besides, we were moving too fast to see anything too clearly.

Suddenly there was a shriek—I couldn't tell who it was from, but it was probably all of us. "What the fuck!" Astrid exclaimed. I just mumbled, "Shit."

The main mast had fallen down. "Where's the mast key?" Astrid panicked.

"Oh God—" _Shit shit shit shit shit_. There was an empty socket where a rod of metal had once been positioned.

"Fucking hell, Hiccup!" she cried, her eyes burning with what looked like blistering hot blue fire.

"What the he—what the fuck did I do?"

"You're the bastard that put the goddamn mast key in! You didn't put it all the way in!"

"Yeah I did!"

"Did you hear it click?"

"N-no…"

Astrid let out a groan of anguish. I thought she was about to throw something or hit me, but she didn't. "It's fucking gone. Thanks a lot, Useless."

"Hey—" My eyes shifted, looking for something to change the subject. "Hey, what's Fishlegs doing?" 

"Oh my God!" Astrid's hands flew to her mouth. "You knocked him out!"

"I did not! The mast did!"

"You put in the goddamn mast key!"

"I—" Poor Fishlegs was sprawled out awkwardly on the dumb-looking blue trampoline. There was a lump on his head.

"Well don't just stand there!"

After a panicky check, we determined that Fishlegs's heart was beating and his lungs were taking in oxygen. "Only unconscious," Astrid proclaimed. "Not dead or in a coma or anything."

I laughed nervously. "Well, that good!" 

"We have a broken mast, no mast key, an unconscious crew mate, and _it's all your fault." _I swear, the girl was about to have an aneurism.

"I—"

She put a hand up. "Don't! You've done enough, Useless. Don't. Help."

Astrid put Fishlegs in a position where he was least likely to fall off the catamaran, but there was no certain; our boat was fairly small and Fishlegs is admittedly a big guy. She grabbed an oar and stared out to the west. "I can see an island over there. It's the closest land. We'll paddle there." She paddled on her own for a few moments before she shot at me, "Why are you just sitting there? Help me!" 

"Oh, I'm sorry," I muttered under my breath. "I thought the Princess of Berk didn't _need _any help." I'm sure she heard me, for her scowl deepened, but she didn't say anything. I started paddling.

We couldn't see the other boat or even Gobber's—we were either too far behind or had gotten off course. The tiny head of green waving at us from a distance seemed like the best choice. We paddled.

**I hope you liked this chapter! :D I really enjoyed writing this one.**

**I'd like you do know that I recently reread all the review for IBT and I could not stop smiling. Thank you all who took the time to read this fic! (Also, I know Stoick is not spelled Stoic in canon but, hey, this is an AU.) Reviews are appreciated and enjoyed!**


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